In Death
by callas-and-ivy
Summary: I'm Dying, he proclaims calmly. Harry speaks candidly about his pending death...set years after the final battle. Possible one-shot, tell me if you want more.


I'm dying. Staggering thought, for sure, but feel honored, I don't admit it to just anybody. Why, you ask. Because, I'm perfectly happy living in denial. If I don't acknowledge what the 'Experts' said then there's a chance of actually getting out of bed in the morning. If I don't think about it maybe my mind will focus on other things, like .eating, breathing or books or other such mortal trivialities. I don't fear death, in fact it will be a welcome relief, from the pain.  
  
Of course I'm in pain, you look at me as though I've grown a second head.which isn't far from the truth. That's what's killing me after all. The last bit of Old Voldie is stuck in me, a cancerous cyst that spreads and retracts. Sometimes bigger, sometimes smaller, depending on far too many factors to list.  
  
That day, you know the one, people said after that day when his charred body lay at my feet that my battle with him was over at last. Oh, how little they understood then. Even I was naive enough to celebrate freedom from Voldemort. The rest of the world is free, but I.in killing him.condemned myself to this slow, painful degradation. My battle with him continues daily.  
  
Well, you read it in the paper. 'Youngest Seeker in a Century no longer able to Fly due to Illness', makes it sound like I had the flu and couldn't go on to play for England. Truth is, I can't fly because, at times, I can barely sit on a chair let alone balance on a broom. Oh, there are good days to be sure. Sometimes I even manage to walk around Hogsmead, grab a butterbeer from Aberforth and watch the world flow past the dingy windows of the Hog's Head. Then there are days when I'm lucky to make it out of my pajama's.  
  
The 'Experts' would have me already entombed in a hospital, if they had their way. But I don't want to be.most of the time. There's still life in me that needs to be lived. Experiences I need to have, stories to tell. I've decided to write, not that I am good at it, nor can I ever manage to combine words in just that certain way that would convey a complete picture. It's always disjointed, fractured, broken.like me.  
  
Oh, Merlin, there it is again. The pain. It comes in waves these days, what's worse is it's sporadic and unpredictable. Years ago, I used to double over and crawl into a dark corner to wait it out. That luxury is no longer mine. Too many responsibilities, too much to do. So, I push through it, smile through it and ignore it the best I can. It isn't there, I don't feel like my stomach has just been stabbed by a jagged knife, that my intestines are being tightened into a solid knot. My lungs aren't on fire, collapsing in on themselves, my body isn't consuming itself from the inside outward. Really. See, I can live quite comfortably in denial.  
  
My friends are great. They know better than to over react at every twinge they see on my face, they don't treat me like a fragile child, incompetent. Mostly because I threatened to curse them and their posterity if they did. They are each dealing with the inevitable in their own way. Most of it positive. We made a rule, don't do for others what they are capable of doing themselves, unless asked.  
  
Sound cruel? At first, it might, but then it's really the kindest thing. Think of children. If you do absolutely everything for them, how does that prepare them for facing the real world? If you don't allow them to use free agency, and experience the consequences of their actions, in the small things, what framework do they have for making large choices? Just look at Dudley. He's my age and unable to get, let alone hold a job and he still thinks the world owes him a comfortable life on a silver platter. That everything should stop because he needs his nose wiped. That's his parents doing, no doubt about it. Their indulgence has handicapped him for the rest of his life.or until he gets hungry enough to humble himself. No, I don't hate Dudley anymore, I hurt for him. I, on the other hand, can cook and clean, yes the muggle way, manage expenses, heck I managed a war because I'd learned how to take care of myself. Although, it was from my friends that I learned to accept help from others and because of that we won the war.but now I'm getting off the subject.  
  
What was it you wanted to know? Oh, right.you inquired after my health. If you're bored blame yourself, you said you wanted an honest answer and for the moment I'm sick of smiling and saying 'Just fine', or 'Great, and you' every time someone asks. What a redundant way to start a conversation with strangers, anyway. 'How are you?' People ask it all the time, as if they actually cared for the answer. As if such a loaded question could be answered without bogging down the rest of the conversation when, in actuality, you just want to know what I've done for you, or if I've seen your lost puppy or what time it is. It should be a question reserved for close friends, who are prepared and willing to listen when the answer is something besides 'fine'.  
  
And there, see, I'm off on another tangent.  
  
You know why that is, don't you? Drugs. Oh, don't tell Skeeter, I can just see tomorrows headline, 'Pothead Potter,'.actually, that's kind of catchy. No, these are pain killers of the normal kind. Codeine. Prescription, the muggles make. Not quite as good as Snape's brew but I have to alternate to prevent addiction to one or the other. Yes, I thought that was funny myself. I'm dying. Why not die addicted? Beats me. Actually, I do know, but you'll think I'm stupid so I'm not telling you. How's that?  
  
See, you're laughing at me already and I didn't even tell you.  
  
My Parents? Nobody's asked me about them in a long time. I'll be seeing them soon, now that I think about it.  
  
Yes, I'm laughing because I just had quite the random thought.  
  
No, if I tell you you'll think I'm a shallow twit with nothing floating between my ears by air.  
  
Oh, alright, if it'll make you happy I'll tell you. You're quite exasperating, you know that. Unbidden, the thought crossed my mind, 'I'm about to meet my parents, what on earth shall I wear?' See, I told you it was stupid. Well, just think about the ghosts at school. All of them are stuck for eternity or so wearing what they did when they died. Well, even the Bloody Baron, mean as he is, would be a far cry less frightening if he'd died in his pajama's.maybe with a long white night cap.and a teddy bear.  
  
Go ahead and laugh at that. Almost makes you want to sleep in your clothes in case you kick the bucket in bed and end up a ghost, doesn't it?  
  
Ah, no more laughing though, it hurts. Yeah, right there, in my stomach, my chest, my head, oh just everywhere. That sounds like a sniveling brat, pardon me. Why on earth I'm telling you, of all people, all this I haven't the faintest idea. You didn't put something in my tea...did you? Veritas.whatever it's called. It's hard to remember things now, I don't know if it's the drugs or if my memory is just shot.  
  
Things I thought I'd never forget, significant events that shaped not only my life but the direction of the wizarding world and I can hardly remember who else was there, how things happened and the like. Important quidditch matches, my first kiss, the encounters with Voldemort while I was still a kid in school, now there's a topic for another time. Even Graduation, my wedding, the birth of my children. These are the events that were once so vividly imprinted in my mind I was sure to never forget a single detail. Now, they, and so many other events, have dulled or been cast into shadow and slip further away all the time. Then there are words and their spellings, and spells and well, you get the idea.  
  
That's a stupid question, how on earth do you think it makes me feel? Blooming useless, that's how! There's stuff I know, I know I know it, but I stand there stuttering like an idiot trying to remember and come up blank. Among friends it's funny, sure, but staring down the wand of a Death Eater and well.I'll find myself in the ground a bit sooner than Doc says.  
  
Sometimes, I want to yell and scream and cry and rant all at the same time at the unfairness of it all. After all, I worked hard so that everyone else could enjoy their lives and won't be able to myself. I don't get to live to be 150 and still doing circles around the young whipper snappers. Instead, I'm senile at.oh, however old I am now.can't hardly remember anymore. Old friends visit and I can't remember their names, I try to go places that I know and can't find them. Although, I have to take a bit of heart in the fact that my humiliation is shared by all who fall victim to a Weasley Wizard Wheeze, as my experiences were the inspiration for such products as the wrong-way-wrappers and forget-me-not-knots.  
  
What will I miss most after I die? Life. Don't look at me like that, I mean it. The simple act of breathing in an out, especially when sitting around a fire basking in the warmth of my family and friends gathered together. My children, oh those darling babes. No physical pain can match that I feel when I think about missing them grow up. I ache for them, try to savor every minute I can spare with them and even then, it'll never be enough. Most of what I write is for them. Advice I'll never be able to give them in life. Stories that they should know, that they can learn from. Their heritage, both wizarding and muggle, in which they can find strength and power to do what's right. But mostly, my love for them is captured in those pages so if ever they begin to doubt it, they can read and know that I love them, more than life, even in death. 


End file.
